


day, night, reignite

by glitch_writes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 01:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitch_writes/pseuds/glitch_writes
Summary: Kuroo feels like he’s under a magnifying glass, Yaku’s stare burning a hole into his chest.The bar is miles away, but Yaku is too far, or too close, he’s too much, and the fire scorching beneath Kuroo’s breast is threatening to flare up and engulf him entirely by the time he’s within arm's reach of the arsonist responsible.





	day, night, reignite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noyabeans (snowdrops)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdrops/gifts).



Kuroo’s fingertips nearly slip as he pushes the door, stopping short of wiping his other palm to clutch at the hem of his shirt instead. He talked up a big game to Bokuto, felt nearly invincible when he caught his reflection in the gay bar’s window as he walked past its neon sign. But his confidence is blown away by the gust of autumn wind slamming the door behind him.

He should leave, he decides as he hesitates to step forward. The bar is too small, there’s not enough people, the intimacy is as suffocating as the cigarette smoke floating by the dimmed, burnt orange lights. The clinks of glasses on tables are muffled by the pulse pounding in his ears, the polished mahogany of the counter too classy for a young 20-something like him, the casual ease of the patrons making light of his nerves. He doesn't belong in a place like this, he thinks to himself. He should stick to shallow encounters like he did in college mere weeks ago, meeting fellow sexually-frustrated students that’ll leave in the morning instead of stuttering apologies to the rugged men trying to pass by as he blocks the doorway.

He takes a final nervous glance around the bar before the last of his courage crumbles, eyes darting from table to table.

Until they catch another’s.

He’d recognize those chestnut brown eyes anywhere, recognize their intensity anywhere, recognize the hook they sink into his chest anywhere as he’s helpless to Yaku’s power over him reeling him in.

Yaku’s hand stills before he can raise his glass to his lips, lips Kuroo dreamed about softly during long days in class and dreamed about fervently during lonely nights, lips now parted a sliver to make way for a tease of pink tongue wetting them as Yaku beckons him over with his stare alone.

The bar is miles away with every step Kuroo takes, the sounds and the lights and the smoke blurs in the distance. Yaku barely moves, but every slight motion is intoxicating - the way he watches Kuroo from the corner of his eye over his shoulder, the way he carefully rests the glass on the counter without looking away, the way he turns to let his hungry gaze trace Kuroo up and down unabashedly.

Kuroo feels like he’s under a magnifying glass, Yaku’s stare burning a hole into his chest.

The bar is miles away, but Yaku is too far, or too close, he’s too much, and the fire scorching beneath Kuroo’s breast is threatening to flare up and engulf him entirely by the time he’s within arm's reach of the arsonist responsible.

Kuroo wonders if he should have some witty remark at the ready, some cocky taunt or lame pun to greet his old friend, but Yaku isn’t just some old friend, and they’re not at just any place. He’s an old desire that still haunts his dreams at night, and this place is the crazy confirmation that his old daydreams could have been - could be - more than wild fantasies.

Yaku’s equally silent as he peers up at him, and Kuroo would have taken comfort in it if he could believe Yaku was as speechless to see him here, but Yaku is anything but at a loss. The way he reaches for Kuroo’s shirt is slow, torturously so, but deliberate. Yaku’s grasp of the cloth over the buttons, over Kuroo’s chest, over Kuroo’s racing heart is loose, testing his limits as he tests Kuroo’s patience.

Less deliberate, Kuroo assumes, is the way Yaku’s biting his lip, a single fang teasing the corner as he clutches tighter, and the sight of it is nearly enough to make Kuroo’s knees buckle when Yaku pulls him closer.

Yaku’s nose is close enough to touch Kuroo’s, Yaku’s eyes are close enough for Kuroo’s to admire how his irises catch the dim light like topaz, Yaku’s breath is close enough to steal Kuroo’s away.

Kuroo barely has enough sense left to acknowledge it’s his turn to make a move. He has too many hands, where is he going to put them, he doesn’t have enough hands, he wants to touch Yaku all over, but he resigns to rest them on Yaku’s shoulders to feel Yaku’s unexpected tension melt away at his shaky touch.

Yaku tilts his head by hardly a sliver, his gaze slowly trailing from Kuroo’s eyes, to his nose, to his cheek, settling on Kuroo’s lips before a whisper escapes his own, a low rumble that sends tremors down his prey's spine.

_“Kuroo.”_

Kuroo’s the one that closes the short distance to bring their lips together, but he can hardly claim credit for initiating the kiss when he's merely helpless to Yaku’s whims.

Yaku’s lips are chapped, and rough, and just as Kuroo’s dreamed, but he's dreamed them in every way over and over again. He'd think he's dreaming now, but the tight grip suddenly digging into his waist grounds him, anchors him to this crazy reality.

It’s years of daydreams that drive his instincts, years of daydreams that shove Yaku against the bar counter, years of daydreams finally satiated when he tastes Yaku’s sigh. It’s years of nights spent with others that weren’t who he wanted, who he _needed,_ that give him the courage to test his limits and part his lips.

Yaku’s not one for hesitation, never has been, and here is no different; his tongue is quick to seek out Kuroo’s, he’s quick to tilt his head for a better angle, his hands are quick to trail up Kuroo’s back and pull him closer. Any ounce of subtlety in him must be reserved for the court, because he’s already exploring Kuroo’s mouth with no grace; there’s too much tongue, no break to longingly stare at each other like in the movies, and plenty of desperation to match Kuroo’s. Kuroo can’t put his finger on the taste of him, but one thing’s for certain; there’s no hint of alcohol, the glass on the bar untouched. Yaku is sober, and needy for Kuroo, and the realization makes him hungry for more.

Yaku’s touch is rough, unapologetic fingers on his back digging into Kuroo’s shirt, but his hair between Kuroo’s fingers is soft, softer than Kuroo had ever imagined. The skin of his nape is soft, too. So is his neck, and his jawline, and his sigh…

Kuroo needs more, so much more.

With the hand that’s not dipping back into the sandy hair that’s unbearably soft, he reaches down for the hem of Yaku’s shirt, slipping up to feel more-

“Ahem.”

He nearly stumbles when Yaku shoves him to give them space, but it’s Yaku’s tight grip still on his waist that keeps him steady. “We should, uh…” Yaku begins before he clears his throat, his gaze set at Kuroo’s chest and refusing to meet his eye. “We should get out of here.”

He may have shoved Yaku against the counter only a minute ago, but now that he’s all too aware that there’s a world spinning beyond their kiss, Kuroo feels terribly awkward at the thought of reaching for him now. He lets his hands fall limply to his sides, and well, that feels even more awkward, but there’s not much to be done about it now. “My place?”

Yaku finally meets his gaze again. And it’s that old, frustrated glare that he’s honestly missed. “My place.”

“No way. Do you even have a bed?”

“What’s wrong with a futon?!”

“Beds are better!”

The knot in his brow melts away when he notices Yaku’s do the same, both unable to hold their grins after Yaku snorts. Kuroo’s missed their bickering; he’s not the least bit sure why, but oh, how he’s missed it.

Perhaps it’s because it’s so… them. He’s missed “them.” He’s missed him.

And he already misses kissing him. Arguing for arguing’s sake could wait; the sooner they’re out of here, the better.

“Fine. Your place. But just this once!” Kuroo concedes, but not without some sort of final word. Te nearby chatter, the dull thud of full glasses on counters, the musky smell and dim lights- his senses rush back so abruptly, he doesn’t register why the bartender is quirking a brow at him until he looks down at Yaku.

Yaku’s flushing red enough to rival their old jerseys, and Kuroo would have laughed at whatever that strangled gargle was that caught in Yaku’s throat if he wasn’t sputtering himself. They were- They were justtalking about-

He may have shoved Yaku against the counter only a minute ago, but now that he’s all too aware that there’s a world spinning beyond their kiss, Kuroo feels terribly awkward at the thought of reaching for him now. He lets his hands fall limply to his sides, and well, that feels even more awkward, but there’s not much to be done about it now. “We should, uh… We could, um-”

“L-let’s just get out of here,” Yaku finally manages for the both of them, grabbing Kuroo’s wrist and leading him out of the bar.

-

It’s pure luck that Yaku catches a taxi’s attention as soon as they reach the sidewalk. It’s pure idiocy that Kuroo remarks on it. “I’m surprised the driver could see you all the way down there.”

The jab to Kuroo’s ribs is harsh- and fully warranted, he’d confess in all honesty.

“Good to see your reflexes are still sharp.” Kuroo’s tempted to make another remark about Yaku’s “reflexes,” but as he rubs his side, he decides one bruise is enough for the night.

“Good to see your wit is still terrible,” Yaku humphs back as he opens the cab door.

There’s nothing gentle about the way Yaku yanks at Kuroo’s wrist to drag him into the backseat beside him, and Kuroo would expect nothing less. “Gentle” never had a place in his daydreams; Kuroo likes to think of himself as a realist, after all. Even if he had imagined all sorts of creative scenarios like space and time travel. Yaku wouldn’t hesitate to jab him in the ribs in those settings, either.

Yaku blurts his address to the driver before Kuroo can take the opportunity. He feels like he’s lost some sort of petty battle, and he’s tempted to tell the driver his address instead just for the sake of arguing when he catches the subtle satisfaction in Yaku’s grin, but the cab lurches in motion abruptly before he gets the chance.

There’s a split second of vertigo that strikes Kuroo, his head spinning with the wheels, and it’s a wonder to him that the spinning doesn’t continue when he looks to his left; Yaku is there, well and truly there, his hold on Kuroo’s wrist unrelenting. But if it wasn’t for the fingers gripping him firmly, Kuroo would doubt the reality of it; Yaku is curiously silent, gazing out the window with his chin in his hand and his elbow on the door’s armrest.

Kuroo’s too preoccupied by the sight to bother scrambling for conversation starters, the yellows and oranges of blurred streetlights and moonlight framing Yaku’s face and illuminating his eyes. Kuroo’s always loved the way that moonlight shines in Yaku’s eyes; he could remember making excuses to reach the station as late as possible after practices so he could watch the way that moonlight caught in them, could remember pretending they were dilating because of him.

He loves the way the passing lights dance in Yaku’s eyes now, too.

He loves Yaku’s eyes.

And he loves the way they catch his breath when Yaku glances at him.

Yaku turns back to the window nonchalantly, everything about his glance seeming casual, but the slow and heavy rise and fall of his chest tells another story. The fingers around Kuroo’s wrist tighten, a hold strong enough that’s it’s starting to sore his skin.

Yaku hasn’t let go of Kuroo yet. He hasn’t let go since they entered the cab. He hasn’t let go since he dragged him out of the bar.

Yaku hasn’t let go of Kuroo yet. And Kuroo desperately wants to ask him if he’s been holding on for as long as Kuroo has.

There’s a little resistance at first when Kuroo twists his hand, but Yaku loosens his hold after his curious gaze is drawn to the motion.

Kuroo spreads his fingers, a silent invitation.

Yaku’s eyes flicker up to meet Kuroo’s, but he glances back down to Kuroo’s hand quickly before the small, guilty smile creeps across his lips.

Yaku’s fingertips graze Kuroo’s palm when he lets go to lace their fingers together.

There’s a comfort in how tightly Yaku holds Kuroo’s hand as he did his wrist. There’s a comfort in the way Yaku turns back to the window, too, as if the hand in his is no big deal, as if it’s been there countless times before and will be there countless times again.

But it’s not long before Yaku peeks at him from the corner of his eye again with a hint of something Kuroo hasn’t seen before, something surprisingly tender that makes Kuroo’s heart beat so erratically, he wonders if it’s finally going to burst because of Yaku. It’s certainly been a long time coming.

The tender gaze from the eyes dancing with the city’s evening lights falls on Kuroo’s lips before Yaku tugs Kuroo’s hand to pull him closer.

Yaku’s kiss is too rough, all impatience and momentum, and Kuroo wouldn’t mind doing that a few more thousand times. Yaku’s lips linger on Kuroo’s for a heartbeat, a heartbeat that steadies Kuroo’s own, a heartbeat that reminds him to catch his breath; he needs more of that, needs it like he needs air.

Yaku breaks away to look out the window again, his hand back in his chin, but his curled fingers aren’t quite enough to hide his smile.

The seatbelt digs into Kuroo’s side when he leans over, but it’s a small price to pay to rest his head on Yaku’s shoulder and feel it relax under him, to watch the rise and fall of Yaku’s chest grow steady again at the touch.

He wouldn’t mind staying like this for a little while longer. Perhaps a century or two. But he’s not sure that’s enough time with Yaku to satisfy him.

-

It feels like it’s far too soon when the cab comes to a halt before an unfamiliar apartment complex, until Kuroo remembers why they’re there- they can finally be alone, they can finally kiss more, he can finally hold Yaku without this buckle cutting into his hip.

Arguing over who will pay the driver is a mess, and the clumsy attempts to reach for wallets and grab their cash without unlinking their hands is even worse, but with a little begrudging teamwork they finally make it out of the cab, and Yaku drags Kuroo up the stairs like he’s holding him on a leash.

Yaku’s apartment is actually… pretty nice. Honestly, Kuroo expected a whirlwind of all of Yaku’s belongings scattered across mismatched, hand-me-down furniture, but instead it’s all clean, sparing a single, crumpled shirt tossed beside a full-sized bed. His only criticism is the blinds over the bedroom window; they look like they’ve seen better days, but admittedly, he likes the way the light from the street lamps pour through them to paint the room in hues of yellow and orange that remind him of Yaku’s eyes.

Kuroo has plenty of witty remarks about the apartment on the tip of his tongue, but he goes for the one that could cause him the most pain. “Isn’t your bed too big for-”

The hands shoving him are rough, the mattress suddenly under his back is soft, and the body on top of his is heavier than he expected. Yaku’s desire is shameless and impatient; Yaku’s already kissing Kuroo before he has a chance to gather his bearings, he’s leaning his weight on top of him, he’s nudging his knees between Kuroo’s thighs.

Yaku’s kiss is as graceless and needy as it was at the bar, all tongue and too much lip, and Kuroo can’t help but meet it with the same ferocity. Of all the kisses he’s imagined, this is the one’s he craved the most - to taste Yaku needing him as desperately as Kuroo’s needed him.

Kuroo’s not sure he can consider his own desire impatient; he’s waited far too long to dip his hands under Yaku’s shirt to feel the muscles of his back like this, dreamed both night and day for years about pulling Yaku’s shirt off to toss to the floor like this.

-

The night is long, it’s too short, it’s a fire and Kuroo burns, burns, burns.

-

The morning is embers, sweet remnants of their night, warming Kuroo all over.

Yaku’s skin is even warmer, soothing heat of the arm draped over Kuroo’s back. Yaku’s chest beneath his head rises and falls to the slow pulse of life the rising sun breathes into the city outside the window. Yaku’s heartbeat is steady in his ear, sweet as a lullaby.

It takes every ounce of willpower for Kuroo to lift his head, but his effort is rewarded; Yaku is peaceful as he sleeps, lashes fluttering, swollen lips lax. Kuroo traces every detail with his eyes, determined to sear it into his memory, just like he mapped Yaku’s body with his hands the night before.

Yaku stretches with his whole body, from his purred yawn down to his curled toes, before he slowly blinks up at Kuroo. The morning light shining between the curtain blades catches his eyes, catches the realization dawning in them with the sun, catches Kuroo’s breath and whisks it away, lost in the sheets and tangled between their legs.

The red creeping on Yaku’s cheeks spreads across his nose, to his ears, down to his chest.

Kuroo’s sure he looks no better - he feels the heat sprawling across his face - but the smirk pulls tight at his lips.

The jab at his ribs is weak. “Don’t look so smug.”

“I can’t help it,” Kuroo purrs. “I just slept with a total stud.”

Yaku chokes out an unflattering gargle, much to Kuroo’s snickering delight.

Yaku is… Yaku is beautiful, Kuroo decides. Beautiful as he blushes past his collarbones, beautiful as he fakes a glares, beautiful as his eyes meet Kuroo’s. The remarks, the chuckles - they’re forgotten, lost, adrift in the sea of warm chestnut eyes that are pulling Kuroo under Yaku’s current over and over again.

This is it, he realizes.

This is the perfect morning he’s dreamed of for years.

The dream of Yaku warm, solid, naked beneath him. Yaku’s fingers brushing through his hair, caressing his scalp, soothing his mind. Yaku’s legs tangled with his own, tangled in the sheets, tangled till Kuroo’s not sure where he ends and Yaku begins. It’s a silly concept, really, irrelevant in the grand scheme of it all; Yaku’s always been tangled in him, tangled in his thoughts, tangled in his fate, taking him over.

“Hey, Morisuke…” The name rolls off his tongue smoothly, as sweet as chocolate, a taste he plans to savour, a taste to ease his nerve as he asks, “Can we- Can we make this a thing? Make us a thing?”

Yaku answers him with a kiss - a kiss as sweet as his name, as gentle as the early sunlight pouring through the blinds, as soft as the sheets under them. A kiss that promises more wild nights, a kiss that promises more tender mornings, a kiss that promises countless days together.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a pwp.... for KuroYaku Week.... Neither went according to keikaku 
> 
> You can catch me at [glitch-writes](http://glitch-writes.tumblr.com) ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


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